Oversight
by Blade not-Runner
Summary: Incendiary attacks on Davenport Industries factories bring attention to a whole new threat… and an unseen subculture that explains a lot about the shady past of Davenport Industries. Half AU, half expansion.
1. Prologue

**Warning: mild gore. I'm a med student and an FX artist - I have no concept of what will or will not make the average person squeamish. You've been warned.**

* * *

Fluid drip-dripped through the chamber of the IV, every clear droplet reflecting the glow of mismatched screens that displayed fluctuating strings and lines and columns of information. A wall of code. Electrical output. Blood pressure.

There was a hiss of a soldering iron and a tendril of smoke that wafted into the air. Chopin's _Winter Wind_ trilled from a set of speakers in the corner of the room. Blood dripped nearly in rhythm onto a plastic sheet. It dribbled from an incision in a well-tanned forearm, held mostly still by a makeshift stint and a local anesthetic. Fingers twitched as tweezers pushed aside a tendon, fished out a wire from amongst flesh and veins and muscle. The technician braced their own arm in their lap to reroute that wire, using all the leverage they could without doing damage, staining their jeans red in their own blood. There wasn't a lot of that. A soldering iron had multiple uses, after all.

Once that last wire was connected to the rest of the nervous system, the new appliance activated and the technician gave a triumphant smile. From there, they took a sip of coffee and picked up a needle and surgical thread. The numbness was running out, and it stung the moment the incision was disturbed. They didn't care. It wouldn't take long. While the technician valued a job well-done, it had been four hours of precision work and every muscle in their left hand was cramping. Amazing that it worked out at all. Either way, the scar would blend in. There were far worse on display.

Sloppy suture completed, the technician removed the splint, sat back on their ratty, thrown-away office chair, and admired their handiwork with an exhausted grin. A brand new weapon only a software update away.

Maybe someday they would thank Davenport Industries. Such a shame that tomorrow _most certainly_ would not be that day.


	2. The Ghost

**Sorry about the giant edit. Just pretend that this is the only version of this chapter that exists.**

* * *

The trouble with simultaneously being a parent and owning a company is, of course, balancing priorities. That little issue could be further exasperated when the children in question are not only heavily affiliated with the company, but repeatedly save it from catastrophic failure that could result in anything from loss of income, reputation, or this fragile planet's ozone layer. The company's problems became the children's problems, and that's an ugly fact faced by Donald Davenport as he debated whether or not this was worth dragging three-out-of-four kids from their classes to solve yet another bureaucratic matter more suited for lawyers and private investigators than a group of unqualified teenagers who probably couldn't possibly care less, and whom received even less in the way of compensation, and whom child number four would surely follow regardless of his mother's wishes. As lowly the reputation of Mission Creek High School, it might actually be preferable to leave the kids to their work. Bother them after dinner and homework. Pay them. But Davenport had his reasons which, to the outside eye, would seem utterly ridiculous. Paranoid. Unfounded. And while they very well might be, he hadn't gotten where he was now by ignoring his intuition and it wasn't like he was bothered by wildly inconveniencing people. So out went the mission alert.

Within twenty minutes, the entire squad emerged from the elevator. Only Chase was the slightest bit disappointed at having been pulled from class, and Leo looked haggard from dealing with the principle who… well, no one likes to think about that woman for any longer than they have to. Bree strode urgently ahead of them all and Davenport glanced back at them from the holograph on the table in the center of the dim, retro-industrial lab. Around him on the walls, screens displayed their constant cascading green designs.

"Don't worry about putting on your mission suits. That's not why I brought you here," Davenport stated. "Some information came in this morning and I've been getting updates ever since. It… It's bad."

Chase and Adam exchanged a glance. Bree came up alongside Davenport and gazed down at the holograph. It looked like a blueprint of a massive, boxlike building. It flickered to an image of rubble.

"What kind of bad?" Leo chimed in. "They're no longer making your hair growth formula or you're about to destroy a small planet again?"

"Firstly, that crisis was averted in two different timelines," Davenport objected. "And so was the whole 'sucking Earth into a black hole' incident."

"Good to know where your priorities stand," Leo quipped, crossing his arms. Davenport sighed and expanded the hologram so everyone could see it as they found their places around the table and Leo took a seat at his desk. After a couple of commands, the holograph animated itself fully so that the scale of its destruction could be shown in all its digitally estimated glory.

"Someone blew up an entire Davenport Industries factory with possibly the most advanced bomb I've ever seen. They destroyed the entire blast-resistant building and everything within a 25 meter radius. Ten employees that we know of were severely injured."

"Ten? With a blast like that, I'd expect a lot more damage," Chase observed.

"That's because whoever it was ordered the employees to evacuate ten minutes before they detonated it. The only ones injured were hit by shrapnel."

"So… what are we looking at, here?" Leo chimed in. "They didn't wanna kill anyone, right? So maybe they're sending some kind of message."

"Maybe an angry employee," Bree suggested with a shrug. She raised her eyebrows. "Maybe it was someone who wasn't happy about their paycheck."

"I thought about that. It looks like someone has been stealing from Davenport Industries from stores and factories all over the country. It was nothing even worth mentioning, just computer parts, tiny cameras - advanced stuff, but barely any of it. So far, they're our main suspect."

"Why? Did the stuff they stole even allude to bombing a building?" Chase asked incredulously.

"I'm still waiting on the full list, but no, that's not why I suspect them," Davenport stated, and pulled up images on the nearest screen. "They managed to hack the security systems with the same software every time, at least that we know of. There's no footage of whoever it was with pretty much every incident, no pattern unless you looked at all the incidences, nothing even remotely threatening. Not until the last time before the explosion, two weeks ago. It's why they're a suspect."

"What happened that time?" Bree asked.

"There was some footage left on one of the cameras. The perp was there for two hours and used one of the fabricators, then destroyed it with a small explosive that set off the fire alarms and sent everyone into evacuation."

"A fabricator?"

"Yeah. This is the security footage from that. It's a bit… strange." Davenport brought the video up on one of the screens and the five of them spectated while Davenport zoomed through the time bar, trying to find the right moment to start at.

A stocky figure sat in a swivel chair with a lab coat and a pair of sunglasses, scraggly brown hair that reached just below the ears covering half of their face. Fast forward and they stood in front of the fabricator, entered some commands into its computer. The process sped up. Fast forward again and in came a security guard. The figure stalled for a moment, until the guard became defensive, then they grabbed the nearest book an threw it at him. It hit him straight in the chest and was just enough of a distraction that he was now holding his gun in an awkward position. The figure charged him with an unsteady gait and landed a hard hit to his face, knocked him to the ground, and stood spectating to see whether or not he would get up to fight. He didn't. They hauled the bigger man up with ease and dragged his unconscious body behind a desk. They bound and gagged him with half a roll of standard office tape, then dragged a chair over to the door and positioned the back of it under the handle so no one could come in to investigate the noises that were sure to have come from that room. There was a lot of fast-forwarding, then the figure took their prize from the fabricator. They tossed what looked like a makeshift, tubular grenade into it, then left the room rather anticlimactically, tossing their lab coat over the guard's face and giving the camera a thumbs-up as they left. A few seconds passed, then the fabricator burst in a cloud of fire and breaking glass that shook the floor. Black smoke billowed from the wrecked machine and the guard struggled to worm his way out the door before he could be swallowed, pressing the coat to his face to breathe with every lurch towards freedom.

The video ended. They stood in silence with varying looks of perplexity.

"Why would someone bomb a company they were stealing from, wouldn't that just be hurting their resources?" Chase reasoned.

Davenport turned back to the trio. "Whoever this is knows their way around Davenport Industries' security. They're obviously smart, they've probably had combat training to take down armed guards so easily. All those petty thefts must've been just for practice, and practice for what… well, maybe bombing a factory is part of it. I'm going to the explosion site to see if any of the investigators will tell me anything. You three are going to stay here. It's not safe with the FBI all over the place. I'm going to go to them before they come to us. Chase, if you think of anything, I want you to let me know. We might have a mission coming up if I can find any reason to believe this person will strike again, or if it's personal and they might try to come after my family. You've seen what they can do. There's no telling what will happen."

"Don't talk to strangers, don't bring anyone over, blah blah blah. We get it," Adam complained. "Why did we have to have a mission alert just for this? It was almost lunch."

"Because I'm leaving in half an hour and you needed to know more than you needed to have a meatball sandwich. I should be back in a few days. If there's any reason to be suspicious or if anything weird happens, _you need to let me know_. Anything weird happens, stay in the lab. I'll make something up to deal with Principle Perry… hopefully she'll be reluctant to pay for a long distance call."

* * *

It was five o'clock in the evening. Chase sat at Davenport's desk, scrolling through that same video feed again, compiling frames that he thought held some significance and getting more and more frustrated by the minute.

After he'd finished next month's homework, he'd gotten bored and had turned to the case at hand. He'd found the entire compiled list of stolen items that correlated with the use of the perpetrator's software, including Davenport's highly expensive holographic environment patch, a huge amount of other fully compatible hologram-related hardware, advanced watches, a small fabricator and many parts to go with it, universally compatible ports, at least sixty lithium batteries of all sizes, the aforementioned tiny cameras and other surveillance equipment, sheets upon sheets of neuron-sensing electrodes, and hundreds of thousands of dollars worth in computer hardware. The list went on and on and on, and most of it was miscellaneous computer parts that didn't make sense. Fifteen CPUs and three of the same motherboard. More cables and spools of very specific types of wire than anyone could possibly need. Twelve monitors of all sizes and resolutions. He'd gone through all kinds of footage sent in by surprised low-level workers, read descriptions of incidences from witnesses, combed through the already strung-together cases, and found new ones to add and search. He'd already found this person six times. Well, he'd found their footprints. They were few and far between, but he was starting to get an idea of what locations this person liked to hit. And, well, they didn't discriminate. Even the most secretive outlets didn't go unnoticed. They weren't exactly clustered, but sprawled like constellations - more specifically, like Orion. His bow stretched all the way into Nevada, where the bombing had occurred, and his head reached Oregon. There was a route somewhere, but it was big. Too big for a single person - and if it was a single person, they clearly had better things to do than design bombs to destroy the very factories they were stealing from. It just didn't make sense.

Chase wasn't seeing the risk until he plotted the entire thing out on a map in bold red marker, and he didn't even need his internal calculation system to see what the panic was caused by. He felt it as a chill that settled behind his rib cage, the sudden pause that froze him to the chair and locked his gaze on where it all led to.

The epicenter was thirty miles southwest from Mission Creek.

Chase dove into the mess of papers and crumpled notes covering the desk for the phone and dialed Davenport's number, sat waiting and chewing the inside of his cheek while the tone went through and repeated over and over and over again until it went to voicemail. Manually. Mr. Davenport was ignoring him. The recording played and Chase irritably told Davenport to call back as soon as possible and hung up. Sharing that information over the phone felt like it would be catastrophic, like mentioning it would launch things into chaos, like they were being toyed with and some unseen force was just waiting for the games to begin. It was ridiculous, paranoid, and bordering on the delusion that was superstition, but Chase rationalized it with the perfectly logical reasoning that even the most secure phone lines could be tapped, that the lab had once been infiltrated and it wasn't impossible that someone could be observing this conversation from afar, that it was a perfectly sane precaution in the name of security. So he stiffly, reluctantly returned the phone to its cradle. He clenched his jaw in determined anxiety and repeated his calculations as if he would ever doubt his own systems, as if he had any doubt in himself at all, as if the data could lie.

The elevator door opened and out came Adam with a large sandwich in his hand and a piece of lettuce hanging out of his mouth. He sauntered into the lab and looked at Chase with an attempt at a smile around his chipmunk cheeks.

"Wha-re-oo doin'?" he said, muffled.

"Just… thinking about the case Mr. Davenport is investigating," Chase answered as he flipped a page to cover the map.

"Oh, I thought you were just looking stupid," Adam commented. Chase turned around to look at him. Adam only continued. "Not that you aren't always looking stupid."

"Well, it's better than actually _being_ stupid," he retorted, and spun in his chair with a tense sigh. He nodded to the sandwich. "Is that dinner?"

"No, it's a pre-dinner snack. Tasha's upstairs making something and complaining about how Principal Perry found her phone number and won't stop calling her," Adam said.

"Why doesn't she just block her?"

"She did."

There was a pause. Adam took another bite of sandwich and wondered off towards their capsules, then around the corner. Who knew what he was up to. And who cared, really, as long as he didn't break anything. Adam might have been a dimwit, but he had a funny sense of "don't touch that" when it came to most of the lab equipment, and in fact with most items that could be broken with a second of negligence from someone who could bend a steel pipe into a balloon animal. Chase sighed again, saved his work and locked the computer. He was exhausted and hadn't eaten since breakfast - human limitations and the metabolism of the average teenage boy were a strange reminder for someone with a computer in their head that their life was more than work. A product of having spent sixteen years living in a basement with nothing but work and no real fun could really take a toll on the human psyche, and he was no exception. In fact, with the electronic structure woven securely into his brain, he was even more susceptible such permanent development, and he was reminded of it every time he neglected his own needs. Every time he became so at home in the lab that he almost forgot there was another world upstairs. It was a strange thing more or less wired into him - literally and figuratively. It was an idiosyncrasy he didn't like to acknowledge.

He checked his watch. Six o'clock. He'd have dinner and call again at seven. And at eight, nine, ten - as many calls as it took. Mr. Davenport was probably going to have a late night.

* * *

Donald Davenport dragged into the hotel suite at one in the morning.

It was a lavish room, decorated with modern class and open concept design, adorned with pleated leather couches and glass tables and romantic lighting that reflected off the massive window looking out over Los Vegas. It in no way suited the haggard man who stumbled in with smears of ash on his face, sweat soaking through his shirt, Nevada dust powdering his slacks and shoes, and part of a tumble weed clinging to his sock and slowly driving him insane. He looked like he needed a nice, long soak in the Jacuzzi bathtub that could fit a small car in it. He smelled like he needed the impressive variety of fragrant soaps and shampoos and the entire cup of scented rose petals supplied on the bathroom counter. And if he didn't have the energy for that, he could make use of a good power-washing, which the receptionist in the lobby had surely thought of when she saw him staggering in.

The first thing he did was order room service. The second thing he did was strip and swear to burn these clothes before he got back, before their dirt could spread to the rest of his luggage. The third was a bubble bath with a margarita, then a large dinner, then passing out on the king-sized bed before he could even finish eating.

He awoke to a phone call at six in the morning. His phone was on silent for everyone - including the director of the FBI to every reporter he'd come into contact with to even his own wife - everyone except for Chase. The mission leader. Chase wouldn't call to ask him about his horrible day, or pester him to buy a new pair of shoes or concert tickets, or explain some great idea that ended with getting one abnormal species of animal or another as a pet, or beg for a souvenir, or ask how to shut Eddy off from afar. As callous as it sounded, this was the level of wanting to be left alone he had reached, that he wouldn't want to speak to the love of his life even for emotional support. The only call he would be accepting was from someone who would only call if it was an emergency. Which was why, when he picked up his phone for the first time since he got to the hotel, his blood pressure spiked and he was instantly awake. There were seven missed calls from Chase. He immediately answered the call and pressed the phone to his ear, sitting straight up in bed with mussed hair and bloodshot eyes that weren't quite focussed yet.

"Chase?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"Where were you? Why didn't you answer your phone? I called seven times, Tasha called three, why didn't you answer?" Chase demanded. He sounded cross, but there was relief and a lot of remaining worry on the edge of his voice.

"Yeah, I see that now and I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to call back. What's going on, Chase?"

"You were right. The person who bombed the factory is the same person who's been stealing from you," Chase said, and explained everything he had found. He explained how he'd plotted out confirmed and potential hits on a map and found out how close they might be. Davenport sat tense while he listened, chiming in with the occasional question or comment, and found himself in a battle of panic versus reason. Owning a huge company such as Davenport Industries meant a lot of threats, thefts, even some attacks on employees, databases, mainframes, constant attempts at hacks and even more constant complaints of people who were, for some reason, dead set on destroying the company. This might not be any different. This wouldn't have been at all concerning if it weren't for the explosives planted. If it weren't for everything he'd found out on this little trip. If it weren't for the proximity to his family. If it weren't for the thumbs-up in that stupid video.

"Chase, I want you to listen to me very carefully," Davenport instructed. "Stay off the internet and don't contact any more company employees. This line is as secure as it gets and so is my computer so long as the firewall is up, but they might be monitoring searches involving the places they've hit, going after IP addresses, sleuthing for any information that slips through the cracks. And I mean _any_ information. They can't trace the computer, not even the _government_ can trace the computer, _I_ can barely trace it, but it might be putting employees at risk and that'll open up a whole lot of opportunities. Any exchange might not be secure on their end and we don't know whether or not this person has connections. We just have to play it safe."

"So we can't use the internet at all? Because there's no way I'm prying Netflix away from Bree."

"No. That's fine. Look, Chase, I have to get ready - the factory is an hour away from here and I can't just take the helicopter again without annoying the FBI more than I already have. Just be careful and keep an eye on everyone, okay? I'll update you later."

After wishing him goodbye, Davenport slumped back in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling. He ordered room service and looked over the case file and notes he'd compiled. He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but that wasn't possible for a number of reasons, so he transcribed all of it onto his laptop and emailed it to Chase with every security measure at his disposal, then called Chase about the email so he wouldn't worry about its origins. Nothing weird happened. Not until he was halfway through getting dressed and getting out the door. And then his phone rang again. It was a number he didn't recognize. He hesitated.

"Who are you and how did you get my number?" Davenport demanded. There was a pause on the line.

"It's Special Agent Frost," said a harsh female voice. It was the lead investigator, and she kind of hated him after the accidental joke about her height - or lack thereof. "I'm calling you from my partner's phone. We're at the Los Vegas hospital and one of your employees has woken up after surgery. He says he has something for you and demanded that you're the first one to see it."

"What is it?"

"A full video of the culprit. He says he's seen her before."


	3. The Rubble

Chase sat at the computer, shoveling cereal into his mouth while he rested his finger in the USB port of Davenport's computer. Copying such a huge file took awhile, but he wanted it. Needed it. He might not have the time to go through the case file this morning, but he could go through it while he was at school. He was so far ahead that classes were becoming dull and repetitive. He almost wished he could just be normal and learn things at the same slow pace as a normal student, that learning algebra would actually be a challenge with or without a mental calculator, or that science courses weren't just a thought away but actually had to be committed to memory, or that the English teacher would actually be teaching him something instead of the other way around. He almost wished these things, but then there were times like these where he could trade a high school education for an intellectual challenge at the slightest whim and no one would know about it. And that's what this was: an intellectual challenge. While it was a very real mystery, a very real threat, it was also a puzzle that was too tantalizing to leave unsolved. The more he thought about this person on their own, when he wasn't just processing information and linking it together like a computer, he got the sense that they were mocking Davenport Industries. They were mocking Mr. Davenport and the FBI and Chase himself simply because he was investigating. That thumbs-up at the camera was frozen in his mind, and though the image quality was low from whatever they'd done to the system, he could see the smile on their face. That cocky grin that said 'come and get me.' Just the fact that they'd stolen so much was an invitation. They'd finally gotten obvious in their grab for attention and it was downright terrifying with that amount of destruction. And while the intentions were clearly malicious, their actions showed otherwise. They put effort into not killing people. The message, however, was clear - they could if they wanted to. Five hundred and ninety-two people would have died should she have chosen not to warn them.

The elevator opened and Bree whooshed to a stop beside him. Chase flinched, but didn't remove his finger from the port. The file was at 97% and the bus wasn't supposed to show up for another two minutes. Supposed to, was the key word.

"Just stall them or something, I'll be there in a minute," he said.

"What are you even doing?"

"Downloading the case file for the bombing," Chase answered. "The sooner we solve this thing, the better. Whoever is doing this is too close and I want them in a faraway prison where they can taunt someone else."

"Taunt? What, did they leave a note for you that didn't get burned up?" she mocked. Chase glared at her and looked to the computer when there was a beep in his head. He removed his finger from the port and checked his watch again, craned his neck towards the ceiling. The bus was leaving. He gave Bree a hopeful look.

"I missed the bus. Can I get a ride?" he asked, meekly. She rolled her eyes, let out an aggravated sigh, and turned around. He hopped onto her piggy-back style and off they went at almost-but-not-quite the speed of sound to arrive at school long before the bus arrived, long before class started. Bree dumped him off just inside the doors, informed him that he owed her, and sauntered off to stalk whatever boy she fancied as of late. Or to go find Caitlyn, who for some sinister reason tended to show up early. Maybe it was best to find a place where she might not find him… there was no telling what she'd do without an audience to stop her.

Chase grabbed a book from his locker, took a seat on the second flight of stairs, and pretended to read instead of just staring into space like a crazy person. His eyes glowed a pale, shifting blue as he scanned the information.

 _Detonation was recorded at 04:13am. Authorities arrived at the scene at 04:30am. Twelve people injured, loaded into ambulances and rushed to nearest hospital with lacerations, bruises, and some fractures. Three were airlifted to [redacted] with internal bleeding. Rescue crews searched wreckage from 05:40am to 23:00pm. Five employees were found deceased, along with evidence of a sixth. Three were verified to be security guards. No signs of restraint or harm antemortem. Blast estimated at [redacted], locations involving [redacted]. Traces of C4 found, estimated amount [redacted]. Evidence of wiring system connecting C4 locations to a single charge point attached to a digital alarm clock located on the desk of the manager's office. Manager found tied up and sedated in gas station bathroom 10.3 miles away. Manager's secretary is currently missing._

 _Interview #1: manager Keagan Rizzoli_  
 _Interviewer: "How are you feeling, Mr. Rizzoli?"_  
 _Subject: "I smell like a urinal and I have a crick in my neck from lying on the floor for god knows how long. But other than that, I feel just dandy; thanks for asking."_  
 _Interviewer: "Well, we'll get some Tylenol for you at the end of this session. What do you remember the evening of the incident? As much as you can tell me."_  
 _Subject: "Let's see… I woke up at around six, which is earlier than I set my alarm for. I thought I heard a noise. So I grabbed my gun and went to check it out. As soon as I get to the hallway, there's smoke everywhere and… there was this figure coming right at me, so I tried to shoot at it, but I couldn't move right. I couldn't even pull the trigger. I started throwing up and then… I don't remember anything after that. I just woke up in a dark room that smelled like piss and lie there feeling like hell warmed over until someone thought to open the door."_  
 _Interviewer: "Do you have any idea who would want to do this to you?"_  
 _Subject: "My ex-wife. My second ex-wife. About seventeen of the employees I've fired over the years I've worked at Davenport Industries. That's quite a list, you know."_  
 _Interviewer: "What about the people on that list who would want to harm Davenport Industries?"_  
 _Subject: "That's an even longer list."_  
 _Interviewer: "How about the figure you saw. Can you describe them?"_  
 _Subject: "Pretty sure they were wearing a gas mask. Baggy clothes. Pretty much covered head to toe, so they weren't showing much. But I think they were about 5'8", 5'10". Not big, but real stocky."_  
 _Interviewer: "Could you tell whether they were male or female?"_  
 _Subject: "No. I only got a glimpse of them before I got a face full of floor."_  
 _Interviewer: "Hm. Do you know of anyone who would have intimate knowledge about your schedule? Someone who would use that information to their advantage?"_  
 _Subject: "My assistant, [name redacted], but I doubt he'd do anything crazy. Probably my ex-wives too, but frankly I don't think either of them would be nearly as tame as leaving me tied up in a bathroom."_  
 _Interviewer: "Have you gotten any threats lately? Disgruntled employees, perhaps?"_  
 _Subject: "Do you have any idea how many death threats I get on a daily basis?"_

 _Interview #3: manager's assistant [name redacted]_  
 _Interviewer: "Where were you at the time of the incident?"_  
 _Subject: "In the hospital with appendicitis. The emergency surgery happened at, like, two in the morning. I called in sick like two days ago, man. It's on record."_  
 _Interviewer: "I'm not accusing you of anything, [name redacted]. You were Mr. Rizzoli's assistant, correct?"_  
 _Subject: "Yeah."_  
 _Interviewer: "Do you know of anyone who may have been out to get destroy his career?"_  
 _Subject: "Too many to name. Sorry, man. His secretary would probably know better. Her name's [name redacted]. You might wanna ask her."_  
 _Interviewer: "Thank you for your time, [name redacted]. We hope that you get well soon."_

 _Interview #4: eyewitness [name redacted]_  
 _Subject: "A voice came over the loudspeakers - I think it was female - and told everyone to evacuate or else they were going to die in… they said we would die in a fiery explosion, so to gather our belongings and be out the door in five minutes. Then they put this horrible sound over the loudspeakers and told us to hurry up. And the way she said it… I don't think anyone stopped to question her."_  
 _Interviewer: "Can you describe the voice? Or maybe the sound that was playing? Maybe it would explain why no one questioned it."_  
 _Subject: "Her voice was hoarse and gravelly, and she was so confident and… almost cheerful about it. Like she was daring someone to call her bluff. And the sound… I don't even remember it. It was just, like, this awful electronic noise. I don't know. Everyone was running and covering their ears because it was so loud. If it was to get everyone out faster, it worked. I didn't even grab my purse and it was right in front of me, I just ran."_  
 _Interviewer: "Did this person say anything else?"_  
 _Subject: "No. At least, I don't think so. If they did, I wasn't in the building to hear it."_  
 _Interviewer: "Okay, [name redacted]. Tell me what you did next."_  
 _Subject: "I got into my coworker, [name redacted], car and she drove us and a couple other people out as soon as possible. [name redacted] called 911 and the rest of us just… panicked."_  
 _Interviewer: "Did you hear or see the explosion?"_  
 _Subject: "We heard it. Then we saw the smoke in the distance. Just this black cloud expanding like you see in the movies, but so much more surreal knowing we were just there. It was… I think we were all in shock."_  
 _End transcript._

 _Interview #6: security guard [name redacted]._  
 _Interviewer: "Did anything unusual happen before the announcement? Any glitches or problems with the security systems?"_  
 _Subject: "No, not that I recall. I mean, for such a big building, it'd be hard to notice if there was a problem, or so I'm told. Video feed and door opening aren't my forte. I work in the lobby at the metal detector, make sure only people with IDs or visitor badges get in through my entrance and don't bring anything hazardous with them. As you could guess, it's pretty quiet during the nightshift."_  
 _Interviewer: "Did you have any visitors that night?"_  
 _Subject: "No. Only ID'd people. No one I didn't more or less recognize."_  
 _Interviewer: "What about the manager? Did you ever see him?"_  
 _Subject: "No, he always gets there early. Way early. I've only seen him in passing to begin with."_  
 _Interviewer: "Does he have to go through security? Scan in anywhere?"_  
 _Subject: "The manager can go pretty much anywhere in the building and no one will question him. His ID can get him through with or without guard permission, at least in most places. Only the really restricted areas require him to jump through any hoops."_  
 _Interviewer: "You saw who came in and out of the building, right? Did anyone seem nervous or suspicious in any way?"_  
 _Subject: "Only the people with anxiety or other problems that compelled them to work the night shift. Nocturnal people are usually nuts in one way or another."_  
 _Interviewer: "You heard the announcement, correct? Was there anything familiar about the voice or the demeanor of the person?"_  
 _Subject: "Gee, I dunno. When people go off the deep end enough to blow up a building, they tend not to behave the same way. Trust me, I know. But the voice? Yeah, there are a few ladies with that kinda voice. One's a chainsmoker who can't get a sentence out without coughing out whatever's left of her lungs, and if she wanted to blow up that place, she wouldn't be warning nobody. Hell, she probably wouldn't even leave herself. Another's this cute little thing who just got engaged and I really don't picture her going insane so soon into marriage. The other is a mother of like eight kids and an insomniac. If anyone would go crazy, it'd be her. You know, I could picture that one blowing up a building. Don't know when she'd find the time to plan it, though."_  
 _Interviewer: "Write down those names for me, will ya, and we'll see what we can do. What are some other ways someone could get into the factory? Anywhere that would be difficult to detect?"_  
 _Subject: "I dunno, a inside delivery box? The back of a delivery van or in the cargo hold of a plane? But they wouldn't be able to get around without a good enough keycard. Maybe they could get in through the underground parking garage, but that'd be real tough. You sure they didn't plant bombs down there? 'Cause that'd be a good location."_  
 _Interviewer: "So after the announcement, what did you do? Did you see anyone leave whom you didn't see come in?"_  
 _Subject: "Shit, man, I dunno. I was just herding people outside and trying to keep 'em from running over each other. If I saw someone, I wouldn't have even noticed. Anyway, as soon as pretty much all the cars were gone, I got in with another bunch of security guards doing the same thing I was."_  
 _Interviewer: "Can you write down the name of those guards for me? We just want to account for everyone we can. Speaking of security, was there anyone new? Anyone you might suspect to be involved with something like this?"_  
 _Subject: "There was this one big guy, real intimidating type. You know, the kind that just hates life and everything in it and everyone he comes into contact with? Yeah, that kinda guy. Well, he came and left a week ago. He was on the day shift."_  
 _Interviewer: "How long was he there? Anything that stood out about him?"_  
 _Subject: "He was there for about a month if what I heard was correct. I only saw him a couple times, but it was enough to know that I didn't like him. He looked like the kinda guy to kick puppies for fun, if you know what I'm saying. There was a rumor about him taking something before he left. I don't know what it was because no one could confirm it, but I think it was really serious or else he wouldn't've booked it outta there like he did."_  
 _Interviewer: "Do you think he might have been affiliated with the bombing?"_  
 _Subject: "I dunno. Maybe. I wouldn't be surprised. But now that I think about it, it's kinda suspicious how he just came and went, isn't it?"_  
 _Interviewer: "It very well may be. Describe this guy for me. Tell me everything you know about him."_  
 _Subject: "I think his name was Charles Jenkins. He didn't look like a Charles. He was tall, like 6'3" or something, buzzcut, real ugly face like someone looked at a box and decided to make him look like it. Pale skin, these freaky green eyes that just stared into your soul. And he had these tattoos on his neck, which were like your usual army tattoos. Flames and shit, and these two little square things on either side of his jaw. It was weird."_  
 _Interviewer: "And you're certain it wasn't his voice on the announcement system?"_  
 _Subject: "No modulator in the would could make him sound like that."_  
 _Interviewer: "And where did this 'Charles' work in the factory?"_  
 _Subject: "Loading docks, where materials come in and product goes out. It's why we thought he stole something. Even if he still had his keycard, it was low level and wouldn't've gotten him far."_  
 _Interviewer: "What was his demeanor like when he left?"_  
 _Subject: "I dunno. I wasn't there to see it, but my buddy said he was real tense and defensive. Probably knew it was time to cover his ass."_  
 _Interviewer: "Could you give a list of names of security guards who worked with him?"_  
 _Subject: "Sure. I don't know all of 'em, but [name redacted] does. I'll put him at the top for ya, and he'll tell you everything. If… If he made it out. He got out, right?"_  
 _End transcript._

The bell rang. Chase put the book down and sat there in silence as the other students filtered through the hallway, opening and closing lockers, wrapping up conversations, waving goodbye to one another. He joined them with numb sobriety.

* * *

The hospital was busy with the usual Los Vegas crises. People getting dangerously intoxicated, mugged in dark allies, overdosed from whatever drug trip they'd decided to go on, people nervously getting themselves checked for certain unpleasant microorganisms that they might've picked up on their Vegas adventures. The upper floors were quieter, where people were roomed for post-surgical recovery, usually in too delicate of condition to be quite as loud as the people downstairs. The early hour probably had something to do with it. Patients were struggling to sleep after a night of being pricked with needles and harassed by nurses, and visitors either weren't there yet or weren't awake enough to cause problems yet. Most of the hustle and bustle was of the FBI agents hovering around one room in particular, several of them talking in hushed murmurs into earpieces. When Davenport appeared, the ruckus died down and Agent Sayori Frost turned from her post outside the door to acknowledge him. She was a small, spindly woman who resembled a pixie more than a no-nonsense government official, with frown lines and gray roots as her only indication of age, a pretty face that masked the harshness behind her narrow brown eyes. She could have walked the runway right at this moment with her model-like poise. The only indications of her career were the most out of place. The badge hanging from around her neck, the holster at her hip, and the fine, jagged scar that dimpled the skin at the corner of her mouth into a permanent frown and extended all the way to the underside of her chin.

"Earl Wesson, video monitoring," said Frost, thrusting a file into Davenport's hands. "He was found in his car thirty feet from the delivery entrance, west side. The car was upside down and the back end was crushed under a chunk of concrete, presumably from the upper floors of the factory. He was admitted with a broken neck and internal bleeding. Agent Rodriguez took his statement at 5:45 this morning, three hours after he was deemed stable enough to be moved from the SICU, and Mr. Wesson explained why he did not evacuate immediately. He said that he was searching the video feed and copying that which contained the suspect. Rodriguez asked him how he knew whom the suspect was and Wesson said that he recognized her. We tried to get him to show us the footage, but he requested that you show up and has refused to relinquish the password of the flash drive until he speaks to you. So that's why you're here. Any questions?"

"Um, no, not for you," Davenport answered and turned partway before looking to her again. "So you're just using me as an interrogation method, right?"

"You can consider it mutually beneficial."

He and Agent Frost entered the hospital room and she swept aside the curtain. The man in the bed attempted to tilt his head towards them, eyes straining in their sockets. His neck was firmly held in a multipart brace that connected to a halo of plastic keeping his head from moving so much as a centimeter in any direction, keeping his neck from operating in any form except maybe breathing, and muffin-topping his chin in such a way that it looked like he was being strangled. His face was red and puffy and his eyes were bloodshot, watery, glazed over with painkillers and the thousand-yard stare of someone who couldn't believe where they were or how they'd gotten there. But, as Davenport circled around to the front of the bed, Mr. Wesson's flaccid lips curled into a smile.

"Mishtur Davnnpurt," he mumbled out. "Ichs nn hunnur."

"It's even more of an honor for me, Mr. Wesson," Davenport replied, masking his discomfort with a grateful smile and a friendly hand on Wesson's leg. "Talk about a stellar employee! Agent Frost told me all about you. When you get out of this hospital, I owe you a promotion." Ah, classic showmanship. It was what made the press think that he wanted to talk to them, employees think that he had all of their best interests at heart, and this poor man think that his state didn't make Davenport sick to his stomach.

"Thnnk-oo, Mishtur Davnnpurt."

"Mr. Wesson," Agent Frost interjected, holding up a recorder that was already rolling, which made Davenport visibly uneasy. She set it on the table beside the hospital bed. "Now that Mr. Davenport is present, would you care to run us through how you recognized the suspect?"

"Chan I wry it duwn?" he slurred. "It hursh to speak."

"Of course," said Frost, and she snapped her fingers to her partner - a young man twice her size - and he handed over a notebook and pen. She took them from him, set them both on the table, and pivoted it over his lap. He took the pen in his IV hand - the right hand - and adjusted his bed with a mechanical whir so he could see what he was doing. A bit of drool dribbled onto the paper and he sheepishly swiped it away. First, he wrote out a jumble of numbers and letters, underlined it, and scribbled out _'let's watch the video.'_ They assumed he'd explain as they went, so here came Agent Frost's partner with a laptop and the flash drive, they plugged in the password, and waited for the video to load. All the while, Mr. Wesson scribbled out his explanation with rapt attention, and once the video was ready, he turned the page and wrote out the chronological order of the video fragments by timestamps. How he had configured the footage was unorthodox, perhaps a screen recording of sorts, like he'd been following the suspect camera by camera at some point and then went back and forth and back and forth, finding her over and over again, flipping through in rapid succession. It would have been impossible to decipher without Mr. Wesson's help.

The suspect emerged from the basement elevator, donning black cargo pants and matching shirt, a bulletproof vest with 'security' displayed in blocky white lettering across the chest, sunglasses and dark hair pulled into a ponytail, and a large duffel bag hauled over her shoulder. It could have been anyone, had it not been for that familiar gait that carried her down corridors, past real security guards, amongst the nighttime employees who seldom so much as looked at her. Yet again, it was the reactions of those few passersby that was so peculiar. Those who looked at her face watched her for a few seconds, but the security guards did not. They turned away respectfully, maybe nodded to her, stayed out of her way as if she were one of them and it was clear she was on a mission. It was as though she had an emblem of the pariah, demanding not to be invisible, but to be deliberately ignored. Noticed, certainly, but not bothered with. The only person to really interact with her was a security guard, a large black man who smiled and nodded to her as she swiped the card and boarded the next elevator to her destination. ' _That's Benjamin Davis,'_ wrote Mr. Wesson at that exchange. ' _Not suspicious.'_ It was after that when things started to turn sinister. The suspect strode casually down a hallway to a janitor's closet, whipped out a ring of keys, and shuffled through them for a few seconds before sliding a key into the lock. In she went, and minutes later came out, presumably lighter by a pound of C4 and a bundle of wires. The next stop was a bathroom on the same floor, once again with no cameras with which to view her in the act. Two more and he understood - she was destroying all corners of the building, which was shaped like a giant horseshoe with the parking lot in the center, the garage underneath the center segment of the factory, the loading docks extending out from the east wing. East and central were mainly factory, and west was mainly offices and contained more paperwork than its entire weight in concrete. Eight individual bombs planted on the third floor alone, and then she moved on to the sixth. She strode from the elevator into the more industrial part of the factory, with another floor's worth of ceiling space to fit in all the equipment. This factory in particular specialized in computer hardware, and this floor specialized in production of materials to do so. From the viewing balcony on which she walked, a printing press of tiny nodules was being produced and she spectated as casually as if she'd gone for an educational visit as opposed to destroying the very building she stood in. There was little footage of her on this floor, but at some point she had ditched the duffel bag and was walking hurriedly on a route to the manager's office. She reached its door on the eleventh and final floor on the west wing. She swiped the keycard and entered. The viewpoint changed to pitch black for several seconds, then the clicking on of a lamp. It illuminated the cluttered desk with its shining staplers and pair of computer monitors and a plethora of pencils and the cream-colored announcement phone nestled just underneath it. Her demeanor had calmed, relaxed, and she slumped into the chair with her fingers laced behind her head and kicked her feet up on the desk amongst the stacks of paperwork, looking for all the world like a kid who'd snuck behind the teacher's desk while they were away. Then she looked up at the camera, smiled, and slid her sunglasses off. It was amazing the amount of her face that they masked, because now her features were in full view, and while the footage was grainy and she was just far enough away to make things difficult, there was something very clearly wrong with her face. On the left side, almost a third of her face was a slightly different color, mottled and strange, thrown into greater relief by the low resolution and confusion of too-big pixels, by the abysmal lighting of the office which very well might have been playing trick on the viewers. It almost hurt to look at, to try to make sense of that image. Then, as if to put the viewers out of their misery, she reached into her holster to take out a small metallic object she held like a gun. She aimed it at the camera and squeezed the trigger, there was a gray blur of a projectile, and the feed went black. There was no more to the video.

"Her face is barely discernible in this footage," Frost reproved. "You said you've seen her before. What is it that makes you believe that?"

 _'Her face isn't easy to forget_ ,' wrote Wesson. ' _See it once and you will always recognize it.'_

Davenport wasn't listening. He took control of the trackpad and scrolled through the footage, locked in on when the suspect had swung her legs up onto the desk. He zoomed in and out, replayed the clip over and over under Agent Frost's watchful gaze, even prompting Mr. Wesson to speak up and ask what he was doing. He squinted at her bent knee. The angle of it was harsh, abnormal. Perhaps that would explain her gait. But it was when he zoomed out again and the video resumed, and she turned her head at just the right angle that the light caught her left eye, that Davenport's jaw clenched. With measured stoicism, he sped through to her smiling at the camera and left it there. He turned back to Mr. Wesson.

"Thank you for saving this footage. It should be instrumental in taking this person down," Davenport said. "Now, for the interesting part: where have you seen her before?"

Mr. Wesson flipped back to the page full he'd written in the beginning and handed it over to Davenport - not to Agent Frost, who was visibly irritated by the reverence Davenport's employees seemed to bestow upon him as opposed to a department that kept serial killers and gangs from taking over the country. This, though, Davenport was keen to read aloud. Rather than letting Agent Frost gauge his reactions with those soul-piercing eyes of hers, it was safer to give her something else to focus on.

"It says: _'I met her when she was lurking around at the end of one of the security shifts. She was standing next to the parking garage with a visitor's pass around her neck and a camera bag. I figured she was a reporter. I went up and told her that no photography is allowed on the property and that she would need an escort if she wanted to do a news story. She had this thing on her face covered in makeup. It looked like scar tissue. Very unforgettable. She just looked past me and snapped a picture, then when I tried to take the camera away she punched me in the gut and and said to keep an eye out for the new guy.'_ Do you know who she was talking about?"

"Mr. Wesson, do you remember if she was wearing sunglasses?" Frost asked.

Mr. Wesson took back the notepad and hurriedly wrote: _'She was,'_ and _'I don't know who she was talking about. But I suggested it to the head of security.'_

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Wesson. If you think of anything that might aid the investigation, feel free to call," Agent Frost said, and gathered up all she'd brought in with her. She smiled at him, plastic and forced but well-meaning in its own way, and left the room, left Davenport to thank the man and secretly consider whether or not he would be chipping out a lot of money in insurance for him. After that, he turned shook the man's hand with all the warmth he could muster and turned tail, sliding the curtain closed behind him. He exited the room to find that Agent Frost and her notoriously silent partner were heading down the hallway at a hurried pace. Davenport jogged to catch up, and Frost didn't so much as acknowledge him, and her partner only gave him a passing glance.

"It seems we're looking at someone with an eye abnormality, most likely injury-based," Frost surmised. "Her eye didn't appear to be closed in the video, so perhaps it's blindness, heterochromia, a cybernetic replacement, even a glass eye or a recording device. We'll have headquarters run it through the database and see if it turns anything up, and run a background check on Benjamin Davis while we're at it. Whoever this new employee was, it's possible that our suspect knew that his name was fake and had personal business with him. Until the ME's turn up some information about the remains, the head of security is still suspect and we need to be taking every measure to find him." She finally looked at Davenport. "It may be in your best interests to invest in some personal security. We have every reason to assume that this incendiary is threatening you and your business. If not, she may be taunting someone she knew would be viewing the camera footage; in which case, you ought to examine your administrative and technical employees, especially in security. Someone may have done something to anger her. She may even have been an employee herself."

"What do you think I've been doing?" Davenport snapped. "I don't like getting death threats any more than my employees do. Besides, I think bombing a building is a bit of an overreaction to a petty disagreement."

"Daft of you to assume it's a disagreement at all," commented Frost, pressing the button to the elevator. They boarded and Davenport stood next to Frost's stoic partner. He still didn't know his name. He was at least 6'5" and built like a tank, muscles stretching the fibers of his black dress shirt to capacity despite being unbuttoned down to the top of his sternum to supply some extra room, jet black hair combed to one side with a lock of it sticking up in defiance, dark olive skin and warm ocher eyes that were no less piercing than Agent Frost's, but more reserved, watchful. He looked at Davenport with a thoughtful expression, like he was trying to understand what made him tick. Davenport looked away from him and shifted his crossed arms in discomfort. The doors opened and they were on the ground floor, heading out of the building with the eyes of spectators on their backs, curious glances from nurses who had heard of their presence, shocked and uncomfortable looks from patients. Neither Davenport nor the FBI agents were bothered by public scrutiny.

"So this suspect," said Davenport when they were outside, out of earshot of passersby, "will you keep me updated on what you find out about her? 'Cause I'm planning to go home."

"Considering you and your associates are at risk, yes, on a need-to-know basis." Agent Frost turned to him. "Beings you have not been nearly as open throughout this investigation or any other, consider it an act of generosity."

* * *

The second Davenport was in the car, he pulled out his cellphone and dialed Chase.

"I need you to find out what she made in the fabricator," Davenport ordered.

"I… Mr. Davenport, it's the middle of class, I can't just leave - Principle Perry has been cracking down on us. She even has a hall monitor tailing Leo."

"Fine. Fine, I'll send it to your phone. I thought I asked you to examine it, Chase."

"I did, but I got sidetracked. I couldn't figure out what it was, so I looked at the items she'd been stealing to see if it was anything similar, maybe it would give me a clue." A pause. "I don't think it's a weapon or anything. I can't tell what it is, just these two misshapen rods, maybe twelve to fourteen inches long."

"Okay, okay, that's… Sorry, there's just a lot going on right now. If you can figure out what it is, call me. I'll be home in a couple hours and hopefully I can convince Perry to let you out of class early."

"Who is she? What does she want with us?"

Mr. Davenport paused for several seconds, brow furrowed, and finally sighed. "I think... I think she's an android."


End file.
